~ Theatre, Feminism & Poetry.

Tag Archives: Illicit Congress

Jamie and I spent the afternoon getting our fictitious shared narrative straight. We distributed donuts at the theatre and his co-workers seemed perfectly amenable to swallow the sugary goodness and well as our premeditated tale of romance.

We went back to Jamie’s house to pack Pete’s things for staying with Isabelle. I debated a change of outfit, but I didn’t bring that many clothes with me and looking librarian-ly can also come across as slightly intimidating. And I wanted as many things working in my favor as possible when it came to this dinner.

“Isabelle might come across as warm tonight at dinner, but don’t be fooled,’ Jamie called out from Pete’s bedroom. “She will be watching you like a hawk, trying to zero in on what she perceives to be your weakness and save that information for future use.”

“Heh. No reason at all to feel intimidated, then, right?”

The truth is, I was feeling strong, but also couldn’t shake a bit of inadequacy as well. Isabelle was Peter’s mother. They had shared history. She will always have a tie to him through blood. I may just be passing through.

“I figured that we could go to Intermission. It’s the restaurant that’s attached to the theatre. There is food there that Peter likes and wine and beer, but not hard liquor. Isabelle gets mean when consuming liquor.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

If tonight went well, what did that mean? This was all foreign and very new, but I wasn’t that scared. Yet.

I took a seat on the living room couch and half-heartedly pawed through a coffee table book of Ansel Adams prints. Vast expanses of landscape in black and white. There was part of me that wanted run away, climb one of the mountains in the book and hope that Isabelle doesn’t come after me with an ice pick.

Jamie emerged from Peter’s room with a Buzz Lightyear bag with wheels and a handle.

“Any other pointers for tonight?”

Jamie shrugged. “Just be yourself, but think before you speak. I know that sounds contradictory…you’ll be under scrutiny, but I suppose part of it is just a mama bear instinct kind of thing. She wants to make sure that you won’t mess with her baby cub.”

He walks over and sits next to me on the couch.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“I understand her being overprotective about Peter, but what about you? Does she still feel that she has a claim to you? Does she?”

Jamie looks at me and takes my hands in his.

“Let me be really transparent. Isabelle and I are done. Over. No more, no way. When she walked out and left me and Peter, that was it for me. Anyone who could leave someone as amazing as Pete…That was someone who I didn’t need as my partner any more.”

I smile, feeling confident.

“That’s not to say that she won’t try to make you think that there’s the possibility that we might get back together. She just likes to destroy the happiness of others. I think she got that from her mother or something.”

“Come on, that’s not hereditary.”

“I sure hope not. It looks as if it skipped Pete if it is, though.”

“Do we need to talk to Pete?”

“About what?”

“About us? Have you had a girlfriend before? I mean, since Isabelle–one who has stayed the night?”

Whoa. I am not sure if I want to be going down this road. But it’s already slipped out of my mouth, so…

“No. I’ve seen a few women since Isabelle, but none who have…spent the night. This has been going faster than I intended, but I think we’re both comfortable with the pace, right?”

“Right?”

“And if Pete has questions, we’ll answer them in the best way we can. He knows you’re my girlfriend, and I think that’s all he needs to know about our relationship, unless he asks other questions.”

“Sounds good to me. Kids are new territory for me and I want to make sure I do right be me.”

“You always do right by me, Dorothy.”

And he leans in for a kiss. Which turns into making out. Which turns into…completely spontaneous, acrobatic afternoon sex. I love my life.

***

We show up at Intermission at five o’ clock with Pete and Buzz Lightyear in tow. Isabelle is already seated at a large table, halfway into a glass of red wine.

“Mommy!” Pete runs over and jumps on her.

“Hey, baby boy, I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you, too, Mommy.”

It’s obvious that Pete is going to sit by Isabelle. Jamie moves in to sit on the other side of her and I sit across.

“Dorothy, I’d like to apologize for the first impression I made last night. I was feeling the effects of jet-lag and I really should have called before I just showed up.”

“Apology accepted. I didn’t mean to be so forceful, I just really had no idea who you were. I mean, I hadn’t seen a picture or anything….”

“Perfectly understandable. I wouldn’t expect anything less. It’s good to know that there’s someone else looking out for Peter. Tell me, Dorothy, do you have any experience with children. Any siblings, for instance?”

Jamie and Peter watch our conversation like a ping pong match. I feel like they are both rooting for me and it gives me momentum.

“I’m an only child, but I did work as a nanny during grad school.”

This is an outright lie, but…when in Rome?

“Oh, that’s good to know. Good to know.”

The waiter mercifully arrives at the table to take our drink orders. Jamie and I both order glasses of Cabernet and Pete gets chocolate milk.

“Now, Dorothy. What is it that you do?”

“She’s a real librarian, mom. She went on the field trip with my class today to the public library and helped me fill out my library card and choose some books. And she tells the BEST bedtime stories.”

Pete is beaming from ear to ear and looks towards me with great reverence.

Isabelle’s eye’s narrow considerably. She reaches for her wine, downs the rest of it and turns to Jamie.

“Can I talk to you outside for a moment?”

“Isabelle–”

“Now.”

She takes the dark green napkin from her lap and places it dramatically on the table, exiting quickly.

“I’ll be right back, sorry guys.”

Jamie follows her out.

“What’s going on, Dorothy?”

Pete looks up at me with confusion and concern.

“Nothing, buddy. Your mom and dad just want to have a talk. By themselves.”

“They shout a lot when they do that. Um…well, Mommy shouts and Daddy tries to get her to stop shouting. And sometimes after I get ice cream. Will I get ice cream tonight?”

We are debating between chicken nuggets and mac and cheese when Isabelle and Jamie come back in to the restaurant. Neither one looks all that happy.

“What do you think, Mommy, should I get chicken nuggets or mac and cheese?”

“Honey, why don’t we go over to where I’m staying and have a secret picnic dinner, just the two of us. And we’ll make sure to grab ice cream for dessert.”

Pete looks at me, then at Jamie. We both try not to show emotion.

“Okay, Mommy. Bye, Daddy, see you at the show later. Bye, Dorothy.”

He leans over and gives me a squeeze.

“Will you come over to my Mommy’s after the show and tell me a bedtime story?”

This is dangerous territory.

“Peter, I am sure your mom tells great bed time stories. And she hasn’t gotten to tell them to you for a long time. It’s her turn this weekend.”

“Yes, it’s my turn this weekend,” Isabelle hisses, grabbing Buzz Lightyear in one hand and Peter’s hand in the other. They leave quickly and without ceremony.

I turn to Jamie.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. She–she wanted you to leave dinner and I told her that wasn’t going to happen and so she decided to take Peter for dinner. She’s feeling threatened by you. Hopefully she’ll calm down. Time with Pete always softens her.”

“Jamie, I am so sorry you have to go through this. If it’s easier for me to go back to Decorah–I can come back next weekend.”

“No, of course not. I’d really like you to stay. Let’s look at this as an opportunity. We get to spend at lot of time alone together this weekend and get to know each other better. Without Peter around. Which is probably the order we should have done it in anyway, right?”

“Right. Do you want to stay here for dinner, or–”

“Might as well. We can try to salvage the evening, make it romantic?”

“Anywhere I go with you is romantic, Jamie.”

We smile and clink our glasses together.

***

I left Jamie at the theatre and checked my watch. 6:30. If I calculated correctly, I had just enough time to drive up to Rochester, pick up some candles and lingerie and get back to the cottage before Jamie got back. I was going to turn this night around if it killed me.

My phone buzzed with the sound of a voicemail.

I had no interest in checking it. It was probably Linda with some strange request or platitude. I sighed and pushed the button to retrieve the message.

“Hi, honey. It’s Mom. Just wanted to know if we were still on for Thanksgiving next week. Your father and I would love to see you and hear all about how the new job coming along. Give me a call when you have a minute. Love you!”

Crap. Thanksgiving. What was I going to do for Thanksgiving? Was it too soon to ask Jamie and Pete over for Thanksgiving? Probably? But then again, it might be nice to come home with both a boyfriend and a potential step-grandson. I had to give this some thought.

I got into my car and blasted Florence + The Machine as I headed up to Rochester.

There is nothing like waking up to someone for the first time. I wake up to find Jamie’s left arm flopped over my stomach protectively. He was still asleep. He looks like a larger, more handsome version of Pete. I lay there quietly, not wanting to wake him hoping to drink in at least five more minutes of him.

Last night wasn’t crazy–it was familiar. It was like finding someone in the night and coming home to them. It had all been far more gentle than I was expecting, but it was lovely and safe. We were still getting to know each other, there was plenty of time for wild and crazy sex later on.

I tried to stifle a giggle, but it was too late. Jamie yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“Morning, ” I replied through a grin and curled up on his chest. He bent his neck in such a way that he could kiss my forehead.

“That was nice, last night,” he started.

“Yes, really nice,” I purred.

He traced delicate circles on my back with his left fingers. We lay there in silence, in stillness for several minutes.

“Come on,” he said suddenly. “I’ll get coffee going.”

He left for the kitchen and I bent down, retrieving my clothes, piece by piece, from the floor below. I got dressed and then went in search of my duffel bag to get new clothes for the day. There was no way Isabelle was going to see me in the same clothes as last night.

I went into the small bathroom and brushed my hair and teeth, throwing on a little bit of makeup. I threw on an outfit from my bag that was my most “librarian-y” for Pete’s benefit.

I had fallen asleep in my contacts, which were now suctioned onto my eyeballs. It took some doing to pry them off, but eventually, success! I riffled through my bag to find my glasses. Looking at myself in the mirror, I felt very academic.

I surveyed the bathroom. I liked this part of getting to know someone–seeing what shampoo they used, how they stacked their toilet paper, whether or not the guest towel was clean. The bathtub was populated with Pete’s bath time toys: boats, pirates, airplanes, water guns. There was an adult sized toothbrush in the toothbrush holder, right next to a child-sized one in the shape of a rocket. I picked up the rocket toothbrush and held it for a moment. Then I made rocket noises and flew it around the bathroom, making myself giggle yet again.

“Hey, that’s my toothbrush!” came a groggy voice in dinosaur pajamas.

“Oh, hi, good morning, buddy–of course, here you go,” I said hastily, taking it as my cue to exit.

I secretly watched as Peter meticulously frosted his toothbrush with toothpaste and adamantly brushed his teeth until his mouth foamed. I had never really thought about having children, but watching Peter, I felt sure that I could get used to having this specific kid in my life.

I put my bag in Jamie’s bedroom and followed the smell of bacon and eggs into the kitchen.

Three plates were being filled with scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and toast. Jamie had poured coffee for us and orange juice for Pete. I helped carry everything over to the dinning room table. This place felt like home, and I had a firm sense that I belonged here.

“Pete, breakfast!” Jamie called.

“Coming!”

Dino PJs joined us at the table and it felt as though we had always been a unit of sorts. Maybe not a family unit, but something more fun like the three musketeers or the three stooges.

“So, buddy, are you ready for the field trip?” Jamie asked.

“Of couse, now that I have a real librarian with me.”

He looked in my direction and beamed proudly.

“Happy to help,” I answered, devouring my eggs. Jamie was an awesome cook.

“And then what happens after school?” Jamie asked, carefully.

“You and Dorothy will pick me up and then we’ll have dinner with mom. And then I’m going to stay with her for the weekend, but she’ll bring me to the theatre for my shows and will watch them, maybe.”

“And you’re ok with all of that, buddy?” Jamie was obviously concerned. Isabelle was a bit of a wild card, and Jamie was working pretty hard to keep Pete in a regular routine. But Pete didn’t seem to fazed by this new plan for his weekend.

“Yep. It will be fun. Can I have a snickerdoodle with my breakfast? Please?”

Jamie smiled and said, “Coming right up!”

***

The Lanesboro Public Library is nothing spectacular. It is one of the biggest buildings in the town, built in the seventies and has that classic older library feel to it. I didn’t know what I could add to this field trip for Peter, as the kind librarians had their field trip tour down pat. We toured the entire library, but spent most of our time in the children’s section of the library. They explained how anybody could get a library card and the number of books or movies you could borrow at a time.

Pete held tightly onto my hand the entire tour, as if he secretly possessed the key to what everyone else was missing in library knowledge. Me. A real librarian. Of course, the librarians giving the tour were as “real” as I was. They had to go through library science graduate programs as well. Although, judging by their age and demeanor, that was probably several years before I received my degree.

At the end of the tour, I helped Pete fill out his library card application and, once accepted, I helped him choose a few books to take home.

“I’m so glad you were here for the field trip. I wanted to have an authority in case they got anything wrong.”

I smiled and gave him a big hug. Jamie rolled his eyes.

Peter needed to get in line and join the rest of the class. We waved our goodbyes.

Jamie turned to me.

“Do you want to go over a game plan for tonight?”

“Do you think we need a strategy? I was just going to try and be nice.”

“Isabelle is…let’s just say she’s hard to be nice to. If you have any questions before we go into battle, I’d be glad to answer them for you.”

We left the library, hand in hand, and I began to think of questions that might be relevant to have before dinner tonight.

“Well, for starters, are you two divorced?”

“We haven’t lived together since Peter was two, and I’ve filed the paperwork, but she keeps stalling.”

“Stalling how?”

“We can’t come to an agreement with the parenting plan. She thinks that it should be fifty fifty, but I can’t agree to that. She travels so much, and I don’t want to make Pete fly to a different place every month. We try to negotiate, but we always end up at a stalemate. So there’s no official custody arrangement. Which is why she shows up unannounced a couple times a year and demands to see him.”

“Wow, that’s rough.”

“Tell me about it. I try to emphasize the importance of stability to a kid his age, but she won’t buy it. She was a child actor, for commercials and things and she thinks she turned out just fine, and doesn’t see why Peter can’t have the life she did. She always tries to get him into auditions when she has him. I mean, Tiny Tim in Christmas Carol is one thing, it hasn’t really messed with his schedule and he really wanted to do it. Being an actor is not the easiest lifestyle. If he wants to do that with his life, I would totally support it, but I want him to be old enough to really make that decision for himself instead of having some stage mom foist it upon him.”

“That’s really fair. Have you thought about bringing in a lawyer to help mediate this?”

“Isabelle fights dirty. I’m afraid that she would bring in some big guns from LA or something and fight for full custody out of spite.”

“She’s really a piece of work. I have no idea how she could leave a kid as amazing as Peter. It shows a lack of heart.”

“Yes, it does.”

There is an awkward silence. We have gotten into dangerous territory. I take it upon myself to lighten the mood.

“So, we have some work to do. We need to get our stories straight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I told Isabelle that I was your girlfriend. We should probably create a backstory that’s longer than a week.”

“Pete has only known you for a week, he’s not so hot at keeping a secret.”

“We can say that we decided that it was important that we waited for me to meet Pete until we knew that we were really serious.”

“Are we?”

“Are we what?”

“Really serious.”

I look up into his green eyes and gently take his face in my hands.

“Jamie, I drank scotch last night and kicked your almost ex-wife out of your house saying it was ‘our home.’ I have just gone on my first kindergarten field trip. If that isn’t serious, I don’t know what is.”

We both smile and he encircles me in a powerful bear hug.

“You really are amazing.”

“I know,” I chirp contentedly. “Now, how did we first meet.”

“At Luther?”

“Yes, I think that will still hold up, but it should be earlier, like two months ago.”

“So in September?”

“Sure, maybe opening convocation or something–are you religious? I didn’t even ask.”

“No, not so much.”

“Yeah, me either. I kind of avoid the religious stuff on campus. Hm…We could say we met at the library? I was working the reference desk and you came and asked me about…”

“Beckett.”

“Beckett?”

“Samuel Beckett. He wrote Waiting for Godot? He’s one of my favorite playwrights.”

“Ok, sure, Beckett. And I helped you check out some material about Beckett and you ended up checking out the librarian as well!”

“Sounds good to me.”

“So, does she know anyone you work with. At the theatre?”

“Not well. Why?”

“Well, if she’s trying to poke holes in our story, she might ask around. Maybe we could pick up donuts or something and you can introduce me around the office as your girlfriend?”

“That’s a really good idea.”

“I know. I’m full of them.”

We continue our walk down Lanesboro’s main street, in search of pastries and a fool-proof relationship story to fool even the most devious of actresses.

Fight or flight. As humans, we rarely experience it. Fight or flight is usually reserved for animals in the wild, the zebra as it senses a predator. I purposefully try to avoid situations that involve fight or flight.

I am staring blankly in to the icy grey eyes of Peter’s mother and Jamie’s ex-wife. I know nothing about this woman other than she abandoned the most adorable little boy in the world. My heart rate increases and there’s part of me that wants to punch her. But I can’t fight or fly. I need to stay and engage her in polite conversation.

“I said, who the hell are you?”

Her red hair is pulled back into a severe french twist that is so tight, it looks like it might be cutting off circulation to her brain. She has a willowy frame that contrasts the hard lines and angles in her face. I’d guess she’s about forty.

“I’m Dorothy. Jamie’s girlfriend.”

This is a stretch. Jamie and I have not yet had a state of the union type of conversation. I don’t want to risk the wrath that might spring forth from this ginger amazon if I say something along the lines of “Oh, well, I just met Jamie a little less than a week ago, but I’ve already grown quite fond of him and your son and think he’s the one.”

She takes me in as if she’s examining a petri dish of bacteria. After a few moments, she seems convinced that I’m a fairly harmless strain and cautiously extends her right arm.

“I’m Isabelle. I thought I would drop in on the boys and surprise Peter as a pre-Thanksgiving treat. I seems I am the one who is surprised. Jamie hasn’t mentioned you.”

The words ring hollow in my ears. Jamie hasn’t mentioned you. What does that mean? Do they actually talk or is she just trying to bait me.

It feels as have been transported into an Agatha Christie murder mystery. I must not reveal my cards to soon. I need to carry myself with the wit and demeanor of Dorothy Parker.

“How curious,” I say. “He hasn’t talked much about you either.

By this point, we are circling each other like wolves.

I once had a professor who put the question to the class “Do you now why we smile?” Students suggested “to show happiness.” Wrong. “To show whomever we’re talking to that we have teeth with which we could bite them.

Isabelle and I were all toothy smiles.

“Please, won’t you sit down.” I motioned to the dining room table. We had at least an hour to kill before the boys would be back from the theatre.

“Don’t mind if I do.” came the icy reply.

“There’s some spaghetti from dinner, if you’re hungry.” I offer, making it clear that this space is my domain, insinuating that she is trespassing.

“I’m vegan and gluten-free. So that won’t work. I’ll take a scotch. Neat. If you have it.”

She looks me up and down. This is a test. If I know where the liquor is, I have legitimate claim to this space.

“Of course,” I say, and make my way into the kitchen.

I only have one chance to get this right. Jamie had already pulled out the bottle of wine the other night, so I didn’t see where he got it in the kitchen. Quickly, I scan the kitchen for possibilities. It would need to be high to Peter couldn’t have access. My eye is drawn to a cupboard with a small childproof lock on it. Bingo.

I open the cupboard. Success. I am not a big drinker, but the only bottle with brown liquid in it says scotch and I know from characters who drink in novels that neat means without ice. I pour about three fingers worth of scotch for Isabel and pour a 1 and 3/4 fingers for myself.

I deliver our drinks to the dining room table and take my time lowering myself to a seated position.

If we were in a saloon, the bartender would most likely be anticipating a shoot out.

We are not cowboys, and therefore we have no guns. But we are women, and our voices and observations are an artillery all their own.

Isabel takes a long swig of her scotch and almost belts the whole glass down in one femme fatale gulp.

“Listen, Dorothy. I don’t know what Jamie has told you, but I’m still very close to both him and Peter. It’s cute that you’re here attempting to play Suzy homemaker, but Jamie and I have history. And if I want back into his life, I’m going to get there.”

Bitch, please. She is obviously bluffing. Right?

She regards me to see if she’s getting under my skin. I have not flinched and she continues her attack.

“Jamie does this from time to time. Tries to move on with a pretty young thing. But it never works. Because he never really got over me. We had no resolution. Because we were never really over. I just hit pause for a while. That’s why he hasn’t signed the divorce papers.”

Ok, what?! Now this is completely new and surprising information, but I can’t let her get to me. Her goal is to remove my from the premises before Jamie and Peter get back. And there’s no way that that’s going to happen.

I take a sip of my scotch. It’s dreadful, but I don’t let on.

“That’s funny, Isabelle. Because Jamie says that you’re the one who won’t sign the divorce papers.”

I am completely talking out of my ass at this point, but I have to admit I’m having fun. I am channelling Joan from Mad Men and have my best bitch game face on.

“Listen. This is what I think happened. Your psycho spidey sense picked up on the fact that Jamie was actually happy. So you decided to swoop in and rain on his parade. Well, I’m not going to let that happen. I have no proof that you are who you say you are, and as far as I know, you’re trespassing on private property. So I’m kindly going to ask you to leave this house and find a place to stay at one of Lanesboro’s many fine bed and breakfasts, leave a message on Jamie’s voicemail and we’ll sort out and schedule this ‘heartfelt’ family reunion tomorrow. If this does not sound amenable, I’d be happy to call the police and have them escort you out of our home.”

Wow. Our home. Big talk for someone who has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

Isabel recoils a bit. Purses her lips. Considers her options. Drinks the remaining contents of her scotch.

I lock the door behind her and lean my head against it for a moment. I am both exhausted and triumphant. I pour myself more scotch and preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

***

When Jamie and Pete come home, there are freshly-baked cookies, and classes of milk poured to accompany them.

Peter is all about the cookies and dives in right away. Jamie and I leave him at the table and wordlessly go into his bedroom to pow wow about Isabelle.

“Dorothy, I am so sorry. I had no idea she was coming. I haven’t talked to her in months.”

“It’s ok. I handled it. I don’t know what kind of message she left, but I kind of kicked her out of the house. I’ve never seen a picture of her or anything, and she was such a bitch–”

“No, that was totally fine. She’s not supposed to appear unannounced. It’s not good for Peter. I’ve talked to her about his several times. Why don’t you go have some cookies and I’ll call her back.”

“What are you going to say to her?”

“I’m going to remind her about the agreement we have that visits with Peter have to have at least 48 hours lead time and, I guess schedule a time for her to see him.”

“I told her I was your girlfriend. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to say to her. She made me feel so territorial.”

Jamie leans in and kisses me, gently.

“Well, do you want to be my girlfriend? I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

We both smile.

“See, you just told her something that was prematurely true.”

I kiss him back.

“Why don’t all four of us have dinner together tomorrow night?” I offer.

“Really?”

“Sure. I have Friday off as well. I’d like to make a better impression on Isabelle. As your girlfriend, I’m sure I’ll have to endure further negotiations in the future and it would be a nice peace offering, right?”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

I giggle and leave him to join Peter and the cookies.

“These are so good, Dorothy!”

Regarding the cookie plate and doing some quick math, it appears that he has eaten at least five cookies.

“I’m glad you like them, Pete. Maybe you should slow down, though. Save some for tomorrow?”

He looks up at me.

“I guess so.”

I munch on a warm cookie.

“So, how was the show tonight?”

“It was good,” he says, eyeing the rest of the cookies.

“Ok, Pete,” I say. “One more cookie, but that’s it.”

He smiles and and greedily takes another cookie.

“So, where are we going on the field trip tomorrow.”

“The library!”

“The library?”

“That’s why you needed to come on the field trip. Because you’re a real librarian.”

“Well, I’m honored you invited me, Pete. That sounds like a lot of fun. Thank you.”

He beams, stuffs the rest of his cookie into his mouth and walks over to my chair and crawls into my lap.

I am taken aback by this gesture of affection for a moment, and then I wrap my arms around him.

“I’m really glad you came back,” he whispers.

“Me, too, Pete. Me, too.” I whisper back.

Jamie comes out of his bedroom. He pauses a minute to take in the tableau of me cuddling Peter on my lap. He smiles, and it looks like he could be getting a little teary as well.

“Guess what, buddy?”

Peter whips around on my lap.

“What?”

“Mommy was able to visit this weekend. We’re going to have dinner with her tomorrow and then she’s going to take you on a surprise trip this weekend.”

“Really?” Peter sounds a little unsure as to whether or not this is a good thing.

“Really. Come on, buddy, it will be fun.”

Peter turns this over in his brain for a while.

“Ok. I think it will be fun. As long as we have real Thanksgiving with Dorothy.”

Jamie looks at me and raises his eyebrows as an invitation to answer.

“Yes. Of couse, I wouldn’t miss real Thanksgiving with you two.”

“Awesome!”

“Sure is awesome, buddy. And now, it is time for bed.”

“Awww. Can Dorothy tuck me in again?”

Before Jamie can answer, I pick Peter up and say, “Sure thing, kiddo.”

We go through the teeth-brushing, pajama selection and tucking-in rituals.

Peter is all ears for the next installment in Dorothy’s bedtime stories.

“What kind of story do you want tonight, Pete?”

“A funny one.”

“Ok, a funny bedtime story. Let’s see…Once upon a time, there was a dragon who was a king. He was green with purple spots. But all of his subjects were afraid of him because he blew fire every time that he sneezed. So the court wizard worked day and night and invented nostril covers for the king. So any time he felt the urge to sneeze, he could his nose with these magic flaps that kept the fire from hurting any of his subjects. And everyone was so happy, that they had a big party and roasted marshmallows on the king’s nose. And they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

Peter’s eyes were at half-mast. I went in for a good night hug and thought I heard him whisper “Love you, Dorothy.” But it would be way too soon for that, right?

I turned off the light in Pete’s bedroom and quietly closed the door.

Jamie was waiting for me on the couch. With the bottle of scotch.

“I see you’ve made a dent in the scotch.”

“I had a sip. Isabelle made the dent.”

“Typical Izzy.” He rolls his eyes. Again, I’m sorry you had to deal with her. She’s–a good person, but not so great with the people skills. She’s great with Peter, though, and I’m glad that he’ll get to see her. And that means…”

He raises an eyebrow mischievously.

“That means I get you all to myself this weekend.”

He leans in and kisses me, putting his hands in my hair. I kiss him back and surrender. Before I know it, he throws me over his shoulder and heads to the bedroom.

I giggle quietly. I guess this answers the question of if I’m sleeping on the couch again tonight.

I came into work the next morning to find a bouquet of flowers on my desk. My first thought was that they were from Jamie. I found myself imagining about proposals and weddings and other highly romantic and gun-jumping things of that nature when I actually read the card.

I am about to settle into the soothing work flow of answering emails, when Linda burst into my office. She is livid. I can imagine smoke pouring forth from her ears.

“Ms. Watson, my office. NOW, ” she bellows.

Here are the possible things for which she might be bringing me to her office to chastise me:

1.) The way I handled her Paideia class yesterday. I probably shouldn’t have gone all Dead Poets Society on their asses. Or ripped up her discussion notes.

2.) Taking the CD out of her desk and listening to it. (Although this is really only a viable scenario if she has surveillance cameras installed in her office. Which is doubtful.)

3.) Taking Brittany to lunch. She has already warned me about not fraternizing with students.

4.) Working Jane’s shift last night without consulting her. Linda is a creature of habit and she does not like last minute changes in staffing.

I take a notebook and pen into her office. I will feign innocence until she lets me know for which trespass I’m being admonished. I lower myself into the chair facing her desk and carefully look up into her icy glare.

“What. Did. You. Do yesterday?”

I attempt to respond, but she’s off and running before I utter a syllable.

“Who do you think you are? What on earth, what on EARTH did you do during my Paideia class yesterday? Some of the students went to the Dean and said that they wanted YOU to take over teaching the class? You were just supposed to stand there and read my discussion notes out loud! You weren’t supposed to TEACH them anything! How could you do this to me? This is awful!”

“Linda, surely they aren’t going to take the student’s request seriously–”

“No, of COURSE NOT. But I feel betrayed. How could you go in there and be so, so, inspiring to them?! There’s no call for that in academia!”

I should just apologize and let this blow over. I should sit on my hands and keep my mouth shut. But something inside me rises up and takes over instead.

“Let me be clear, Linda. You have brought me into your office because you’re upset that I taught your class well? Because the students liked me? The only reason I was teaching your class was because you were too drunk to drive home the night before and too hung over to teach the next day. I will not suffer this gross injustice. The next time you take me away from my work, please have an actual, logical reason as outlined in the Faculty and Staff Handbook. Having hurt feelings because I did an excellent job on short notice is not grounds for discipline. In fact, it’s an abuse of power. I have half a mind to file a complained with the HR department. But I’m not going to do that. I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you are having an off day. But if this tyrannical behavior continues in the future, rest assured, I have no qualms with writing a detailed complaint and submitting it. Good day.”

I collect my things and exit calmly. Good day? Who says good day anymore?

I hide myself in the safe cave of my office and lock the door. My heart is pounding and my throat feels like it’s on fire. I’m not used to raising my voice.

I might categorize the events of the past week as out of character. But there have been so many of them that perhaps I am evolving. Being outspoken takes a lot of work. I have a newfound respect for anyone who’s ever spoken up for themselves or others.

This is going to come back and bit me in the ass. Hard. But do I really want to be working underneath someone who is so unbalanced? What an insane week. I want comfort. I want to be with Jamie and Pete in Lanesboro. It’s already Wednesday, but Friday still seems so far away.

I get out my phone and text Jamie.

“Work is crazy. Miss you and Pete.”

He responds instantly.

“We miss you, too. What happened?”

“Nothing, just had a heated conversation with my boss. Hopefully it will blow over soon. Can’t wait to see you guys.”

There is a pause, and then:

“Can you take tomorrow off?”

What?

“Why?” I type curiously.

“Pete’s kindergarten class is taking a field trip and he wants to know if you can come. It’s tomorrow morning. Come up here after work and we’ll make you spaghetti.”

This offer is too good to pass up.

“See you tonight, then! I will bring garlic bread.”

Now to figure out how to get tomorrow off. I think I know how to work this situation, but I must tread carefully. I pull myself together and head back to Linda’s office.

I don’t knock, I just walk right in.

“Linda, I’d like to apologize for my outburst earlier this morning. I ended up working the reference desk unexpectedly last night and that paired with having to teach your class earlier in the day proved to be too much stress for one day. I know I am the youngest member of this staff and have a lot to learn. I also think I have a lot to offer. I apologize for bringing your leadership abilities into question and I think that if I took tomorrow off I could refocus myself and come back ready to servet the needs of this library in whatever way may present themselves.”

I wish it was possible to give myself a high five.

Linda takes all this in. Her face is not easy to read, but eventually she responds with: “Of course, Dorothy, that would be fine. Why don’t you take Friday, too. We’ll see you back here on Monday. I apologize as well.”

With that she turns and pretends to look for a file that probably does not exist.

Of course, she didn’t say why she was apologizing, but I’ll take all the time I can get with Jamie and Pete.

People talk about how wonderful it is to live “in the moment.” “Being present.” I always rolled my eyes at them because I couldn’t grasp what that really meant. I think I’m starting to get the hang of it.

***

I feel like a kid waiting for the end of the school day bell to ring. As soon I’m done with work, I rush to the grocery store and buy garlic bread. It’s the frozen kind, not as good as if I would stop and get all the proper ingredients, but I can’t wait. I need to see my boys.

There are an inordinate number of Amish buggies on the road tonight, but I don’t mind. I whiz past them gleefully and take a right onto Highway 21. The rolling hills fade into black and I keep my eyes peeled for deer. I know that we only have a short window of time before they need to be at the theatre and I want to savor every tendril of spaghetti.

I park in front of the yellow cottage and scurry up the steps. Pete jumps into my arms, knocking the garlic bread to the floor. But I don’t care. We squeeze each other affectionately.

“You’re HERE!” He squeals with delight.

“Yes I am! And I’m so glad to be here!”

Nothing can compare with the singular sensation of a small child being excited to see you. It moves you into a realm with Santa Claus and Mickey Mouse. You are the recipient of unbridled love and infinite awe.

Once Pete releases me from our hug, Jamie comes over and gives me a quick peck on the check while Pete’s back is turned.

“I will pop the garlic bread in the oven and we can all eat dinner together before we head over to the theatre. Dorothy, I know you’re going to see the show on Friday, but you’re welcome to come or hang out here.”

“I think I’ll stay here and bake cookies, if that’s ok.”

“That’s better than ok. That’s AWESOME!” Pete leaps into my arms again and starts to like my like I’m a cookie. “Yum, you taste delicious!”

“Ok, buddy, that’s enough, let’s let her settle in and sit down before we start licking her.”

We all let that last sentence soak in for a minute. Then we all start laughing. Just when I think I’m going to stop laughing, I get a glimpse of Jamie or Pete laughing and I can’t stop laughing even more.

When we all catch our breath, dinner is served. The sauce and noodles look and smell divine.

“Did you make all this?” I ask Jamie.

“Well, Pete is my sous-chef, but yup, I made the sauce from scratch–my grandmother’s secret recipe.”

Each bite is better than the last. Red sauce sticks in the corners of Pete’s mouth and he pretends to be a vampire. Dinner is over far too soon and the boys head out to perform.

“You should have everything to make cookies. There are a couple of recipe books on top of the fridge, or the password for the internet is on the bottom of the router if you want to look up something online.”

“Thanks, Jamie. Break a leg, you two!”

“We will!” Pete says as they leave.

I am not a baker by any means, but I love to make cookies for people I care about. I grab a recipe book off the fridge and find a recipe for snickerdoodles. I grab butter and eggs from the fridge and find flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking powder and baking soda in the cupboard. I smile at the blue gingham pattern that lines the shelves.

I get out a big bowl and mix all the ingredients together. I plan on letting the dough sit in the fridge until right before the show gets out. There’s nothing better than coming home to the smell of freshly baked cookies.

I form the dough into a thick snake and wrap it in wax paper. I find space in the fridge and wash the big bowl and wipe off the counter.

I walk to the bookshelf in the living room. Jamie is well read. There are a lot of scripts and acting books, but also lots of biographies and classics. My hand rests on a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice, when I hear the front door opening.

“Did you guys forget something? The cookies won’t be done until after the show!”

I turn around to see a woman with bright red hair standing in the doorway.

Friday could not come quickly enough. Of course, I had some sleuthing to do in the meantime to keep me busy.

Brittany went back to her research after our impromptu luncheon and I started my own research into the janitorial department on the campus database.

There were three men on janitorial staff with “A” names, either first or last. Andrew King, Aaron Tyler and Lee Aronson. None of them had the library listed as the building they frequented. I would have to keep an eye out during Linda’s Paideia class to see who popped by.

Taking my phone out of my purse, I see there’s a message from Jamie.

“Can’t wait until Friday. Miss you.”

Charming, as usual. I respond with

“;-) Me, too.”

I cannot stand being tethered to my desk for the rest of the afternoon. I go into the Interlibrary Loan student work area where Madeline is busy printing off requests from the database. (The one I should be working with, not the one I’m using to pry into my supervisor’s love life.)

“Madeline, I need to stretch my legs. Would you mind if I go pull these requests from the stacks?”

“That would be great, Ms. Watson, I’m swapped trying to copy and fax all these articles from the Journal of Sleep Medicine.”

“I see. Just focus on that and I’ll take this stack of requests and pull them.”

“Thanks!”

We are one of the few libraries that has the past ten years of the Journal of Sleep Medicine. I am constantly fielding requests from libraries that want to borrow our journals. Since the archives are so rare, they need to be kept in our library at all times. I have to tell them no, but we’d be happy to fax them selected articles. Those interested in the field of sleep medicine must by intrinsically lazy, because more often than not, they simply request all the articles in a volume.

I grab a metal cart and the stack of requests. Descending in the elevator, I am comforted and distracted by waves of familiarity. There is something almost divine about spending time in the stacks. When I worked in the library as a college student, one of my favorite things to do was shelf-read.

Shelf-reading involves taking a section of the library and going through, shelf by shelf, and making sure all the books are in order. I would also get to front the books, meaning that I would line up each individual book, one by one until they were all perfectly at the front of the shelf and in order. Shelf-reading only gets done once a year, during the summer. And now that I am a full-fledged librarian, I doubt I’ll get to do it any more. That honor will be reserved for the lucky couple of students who decide to spend their summer working at the library.

Today’s task is not shelf-reading, it is finding what resources we have that other libraries want. A biography of Marie Curie, the history of France during the revolution, specific translations of great works of literature. When I have pulled all the titles requested from the database, I have roughly eighteen books. With Madeline busy copying from the journals, I can make the excuse to finish shipping these out myself.

Packaging Interlibrary Loan requests is not unlike wrapping presents at Christmas. First, I scan them at the computer, similar to purchasing items from a gift registry. Then, I carefully wrap our Interlibrary Loan label around them, so they know who the book/gift is from. I carefully write the due date at the bottom of the label. Then, I choose what kind of packaging. The easiest way to go is to find a bubble mailer of appropriate size. The newer the mailer, the more quickly the packaging process goes.

I encourage students to recycle lightly used mailers that brought books to us. When we reuse mailers, it’s important to black out old addresses or put new mailing addresses over them. This has a slight feeling of re-gifting about it. For older books or videos, I wrap them in copious amounts of bubble wrap and then place the now-squishy egg of an item into a cardboard box.

And then comes the tape gun.

Tape guns are quite possibly the most wonderful invention in the world of packing supplies. We have four different tape guns. Two with clear tape and two with packing tape. I feel powerful while wielding one. It is hard to be indecisive when brandishing a tape gun. I usually put on way more tape than is necessary, which is probably very annoying to whomever opens the package. But there is something supremely satisfying about smothering a package in ribbons of packing tape.

It takes me most of the afternoon to package everything up. True, this could have waited until tomorrow, but I feel much better having moved around the library instead of answering emails at my desk.

Madeline is gone by the time I finish. Around five o’clock, the library becomes a different animal. Most of the librarians go home, except whoever has to work the reference desk. Students flood the library after dinner, either to use the computer labs, or to get academic work done in a quiet setting. There is the feeling of all the adults having gone home and children being up far past their bedtime. I like the library at night. The students feel less supervised and more free.

I head into my office to pack up my things. Jane, the librarian closest in age to me, knocks on my door.

“Hi, Dorothy. I hate to ask a favor, but my babysitter cancelled last minute. Is there any chance that you’d be willing to work the reference desk for me tonight? I’d be happy to trade a weekend shift with you or something.”

I am feeling unusually generous tonight and don’t have other plans.

“Sure, Jane, no problem.”

“Oh my gosh, thanks. Can I go run and get you something from the student union for dinner before I go?”

“Don’t worry about it–I’m not that hungry and I’m sure I have a Cliff bar or something in my bag to tide me over if I do.”

“You are such a lifesaver, thanks so much!”

The evening shift at the reference desk is usually pretty easy. Most of the students who come to the library at night are engrossed in whatever project they have brought to work on and don’t need outside help. Every once in a while someone wanders over to ask for help, but for the most part, it ends up being an opportunity to people watch.

I bring my things out to the reference desk and boot up my laptop. I have several unanswered emails from the afternoon, which I answer.

From my perch at the reference desk, I can see into some of the library offices. A figure in black catches my eye. I have to squint a minute, but it looks like Linda in a black trenchcoat and sunglasses. She pops into her office and then sneaks out the back door. I’m assuming it’s to get her CD of love letters read aloud by the mysterious janitor known only to me as “A.”

I sigh. Drama just follows some people around.

I entertain myself by googling myself and some friends from college. None of us have done anything extraordinary, but it’s still nice to be in the know.

I have one student come up and ask me if he can use Cliff Notes as a primary source on a research paper. I find it difficult to keep a straight face while I tell him he cannot. He is incredulous and storms out of the library.

I am trying to gain composure when another student approaches the desk.

This is one of the downsides to working the reference desk. College boys who think that I am a student working at the reference desk instead of a librarian.

“Nope, I was just doing my job and he didn’t like the answer I gave him.”

I change my tone to be terse and professional.

“What job is that, being a full-time hottie?”

Christ, I hate this part of the job.

“No, my job is being a librarian and assisting students with their research needs.”

“You’re lying. You’re too young to be a librarian.”

“I received my graduate degree in June. I am just the right age to be a librarian. Now, is there information I can help you find?”

“Uh, yeah, you can help me find your number.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brandon.”

“Brandon. Listen to me very carefully. I am not going to give you my number. Also, I am not going to let you continue to annoy me. If you’d like some help finding an article or a book for a research paper or project, I would be glad to assist you. Otherwise, I would kindly ask you to leave me alone and hit on girls closer to your age. Or better yet, stop hitting on girls and focus more on your school work. College is not all about partying and getting laid. Hopefully at the end of your four years, or in your case, possibly five or six, you will have gained some knowledge and can go forth to contribute to society in a positive way. That is our hope here at Luther College. Now, do you have any more questions?”

Brandon looks down at his feet sheepishly. He takes his backpack off, hunts in a folder and pulls out a syllabus.

Normally, I have no use for headphones at work. Headphones are useless as a college librarian, because at any moment a student or professor may come up to you unexpectedly and need assistance. It does not bode well to be obliviously listening to music while working on your computer. Also, I feel that headphones make me look younger than I already am.

Right now, I would give anything to have a pair of headphones. It is too early to go lunch, so I can’t go over and buy a pair at the college bookstore. Unless…

I go into the student work area and look around for office supplies that are in need of being replaced. Unfortunately, I’m very good at keeping everything well stocked. I am at a loss. I guess I’ll just have to feign a coffee run. But that means I need to ask everyone else if they want coffee.

I look around the library to see if there’s any students that look familiar. Brittany is lingering in the periodical section and I can see a pair of bright pink ear buds dangling out of her messenger bag.

I can’t exactly seize the ear buds for official library business, but I can try to capitalize on her need to kiss up to authority figures.

“Hi, Brittany.”

“Ms. Watson.”

“Thank you again for keeping track of everyone’s participation points. That was very thoughtful.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Watson.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Professor Birch what a help you were in class today.”

Her face lights up.

“Thank you, Ms. Watson!”

“Absolutely. Are those your ear buds?” I say, casually pointing to the headphones almost touching the carpet. I should have just walked by and grabbed them. She probably wouldn’t have even noticed. This is an idiotic question. Of course, they’re her goddamn ear buds.

“Yes, they are.” She looks up at me, confused.

“Would you mind if I borrowed them? I have some Norwegian language tapes I’m cataloguing for the room upstairs and I left mine at home. I would only need them for half an hour.”

She jumps up with kangaroo-like vigor and hands them to me.

“Keep them for as long as you need. I have a research project that I’ll be working on here all afternoon.”

“Thanks, Brittany, I appreciate it.”

I want to run to my office, but I instead casually walk away at a moderately slow pace, taking time to pretend to straighten magazines that need no straightening.

When I get to my office, I put the CD in my laptop and plug the headphones to the jack.

The computer takes a while to recognize the CD, but finally, an untitled track list appears. I eagerly push play.

It’s love letters. Love letters read out loud. None of them are written to Linda, specifically, but all the tracks are love letters written by famous men. Beethoven, Voltaire, John Adams, Vincent Van Gogh, Dylan Thomas, Mozart, Napoleon…

There’s only one problem. Anders isn’t reading the letters. The voice is masculine and somewhat familiar, but definitely not Anders. The initial “A” belongs to another man. I would assume the man reading the letters, but who really knows? I’m no Nancy Drew, but damn, this is entertaining and I feel compelled to get to the bottom of it.

I return the pop quizzes, class roster, discussion note and the CD to their respective places in Linda’s desk.

Next, I walk over to Brittany to return her hot pink ear buds.

She is buried in periodicals. She has staked the territory of the large table with books by Gloria Steinem, Betty Freidan, and newer feminist literature like ManifestA and Bitch magazine. I can’t help myself. I need to know what she’s working on.

“Here are your ear buds, thanks for letting me borrow them.”

She looks up absentmindedly, takes them, nods and goes back to her religious practice of taking notes.

“I don’t want to interrupt you, Brittany, but may I ask what project this research is for?”

She looks up and her eyes are anxious.

“Um, it’s for a Women’s Studies class. I’m supposed to give a speech forming my own opinion about feminism. It’s just–I’m having a hard time getting through all the theory.” She motions the barricade of books and magazines that surrounds her.

“Well, it sounds like a subjective prompt—do you think you need all of this outside source material?”

“I just really want it to be right. You know? I thought it was going to be more of a women’s history class, I didn’t realize how much of myself I was going to have to put into it. And this speech is worth 20% of the class grade. It’s our final. I’ve never had to give a speech for a final before. I’m a great test taker, but this is all—foreign to me.”

“You look like you need a break. Can I take you to lunch? We can go downtown and get off-campus for a while.”

She looks around at the stacks of books, incredulously.

“But—“

“I’ll ask the research librarian at the desk to watch your work. It will be waiting for you when you get back.”

“Okay…yes, I think it might be good to have a break.”

I don’t know the exact reason I’ve asked her to join me for lunch, but it’s most likely because I see pieces of my college self in her. It’s true that I always just missed the cut for honors classes, but I had worried my way through many a syllabus, endeavoring for absolute perfection and coming up short. A- instead of A. B+ instead of A-. It wasn’t until grad school that I realized that my self-worth was not inextricably intertwined with the grades I received.

We get into my car and drive to downtown Decorah. It is a cool, crisp day, and I decide we should warm ourselves at Hart’s Teas and Tarts. I find street parking fairly close and soon we are ensconced in pink wallpaper and embroidered tablecloths.

Brittany takes this place in.

“I’ve never been in here before.”

“My mother would take me here when she came to visit. It’s small, but the food is good, and I like that there is a kind of no-boys-allowed atmosphere about it.”

Brittany smiles wryly.

“Yes, definitely. It is charming.”

We share a pot of Russian Caravan tea. It has the essence of a smoky Earl Grey and I always imagine Boris and Natasha sipping cups of it on their way to undo Rocky and Bullwinkle.

I try to keep the conversation light. My main goal is to distract her from the task at hand. Then, if I’m feeling particularly brave, I might try to sneak in a bit of an empowerment/pep talk. I haven’t yet decided.

We both get the chicken salad croissant with a side salad. Brittany seems relieved to be in a neutral location, uninhibited by classmates or assignments. She eats her food with gratitude.

I wonder if she might be able to help me figure out who “A” not Anders is.

“Just wondering. I’m considering teaching a section of Paideia next year—I know the syllabus is pretty rigid, but I was hoping there would be some freedom for each professor.”

“Well, Professor Birch pretty much sticks to the syllabus. We haven’t had any guest lecturers.”

She starts to giggle.

“What’s funny?”

“I’m sorry—it’s just that there’s this janitor who always seems to be in the classroom when we are and I found that funny. He could be a guest lecturer, if he had anything worth saying, I guess. You would think that they would rearrange his schedule so that he wouldn’t be in there during a class.”

Hm. Interesting. My fingers twitch with the expectation of looking up all janitorial staff in the campus database when we get back to the library.

“Do you have any advise for me?”

“About what, Brittany?”

“On the speech. I’m at a loss for how to approach it.”

“I would say just be yourself. You have all the theory in your head—I’m sure if the final was an exam, you wouldn’t be as worried. I would focus on the theories that either resonate the most or least with you and use those as catalysts. You can structure it like you would a paper, just more stripped down. And I’m sure it would be impressive if you could memorize it. And don’t forget to have fun and let the class see your personality come through. You’d be surprised how much of being a good public speaker is not what you say but how you choose to say it. I’d be happy to listen to it before you present, if you think that would be helpful. And if not me, I would suggest finding a friend you trust or classmate to listen to it before you present.”

Wow, look at me giving good advice!

Brittany seems heartened.

“Thanks for the advice. And for lunch. What a crazy day, right, Ms—Professor Watson?”

“We could have had it all-a-a-all!!” I join in, singing loudly and not at all well. I do a little dance and throw together an outfit of khaki dress pants and a button down pale pink shirt.

Today is a day without expectations. I am hoping that Linda will leave me alone for most of the day because of her drunken escapade of last night that she inadvertently roped me into. Is there anything more awkward than having to drive your boss’s drunk-ass home?

My life as a college librarian is becoming exponentially more exciting than I had originally anticipated. I get my Americano from Magpie and head into work.

I am in my office for less that five minutes before I get a call.

“Hello, this is Dorothy Watson, how may I help you?”

“Um, Dorothy, this is Linda Birch calling,” she sounds extremely hung over. “I would like to thank you for giving me a ride home last night and offering to bring me into work today…”

Crap, I had forgotten to pick her up!

“But, unfortunately, I am not feeling well enough to come into work today. I’m afraid I might be suffering from food poisoning.”

Right, Linda. “Food poisoning.”

“Oh, that’s awful, I’m so sorry, Linda.”

“I was wondering if you’d be able to fill in teaching my section of Paideia today? I’d hate to lose the day of class. There’s a pop quiz in the top right drawer of my desk. After that you could lead a discussion about the section of Utopia they read for today? My discussion questions are in my desk as well.”

“Linda, it has been years since I read Utopia, and I haven’t taught any classes—“

“Well, I’ve been thinking about recommending you to teach a section of Paideia next year anyway, so it would be a good opportunity for you to see if you like teaching.”

There is an awkward pause on the line.

I saved her ass last night and now she wans me to do it again? I don’t want to start a vicious cycle, but I also don’t want to piss my boss off and be forever known as the person who didn’t help out someone suffering from “food poisoning’ around the office.

In the interest of continuing my somewhat positive current streak of Karma, I decided to help her out. Hopefully I’ll have some time to re-read Utopia before class.

“Alright, Linda, I’ll do it—when and where does your class meet?”

“In the library classroom. At 9:15.”

I have an hour. That should be enough time to get my bearings before faux-teaching a class of freshman.

“Thank you, Dorothy. I will rest up and see you tomorrow.” Her voice is stilted.

I traverse the orange carpet and head into her office. I sit down at her ergonomic throne of a back leather office chair. Looking up, I survey Linda’s domain. I feel powerful.

Not wanting to eat into precious prep time for a class I am decidedly unqualified to teach, I open the top right drawer of her desk. I find the pop quizzes, which will automatically make me the least popular substitute ever. I unsuccessfully dig in the drawer for her discussion notes.

I give myself permission to examine other drawers. The middle drawer has gum, pencils and paper clips. I move to the drawer on the left.

Bingo. I pull out her copy of Utopia and find her notes for today’s class inside. I am about to close the drawer when a CD catches my eye.

In crisp Sharpie script, the inscription on the cover of the blank CD case reads:

“For Linda. Yours, -A.”

Is this a mix tape from Anders?!?

I filch the CD and decide to listen to it over my lunch break. Linda is bound to stay in bed for the rest of the day, right?

I return to my office and bone up on Utopia. I also find some left over Halloween candy in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet. The candy should balance out some of the awfulness of the pop quiz.

I wish my hair was in a tight bun and I had coke bottle glasses. It would help me take myself more seriously. I am a very young-looking 27 and am slightly paralyzed with fear that the students are going to laugh in my face when I say I’m subbing for Linda. Then they will leave the classroom and I will be forced to forge twenty-some quizzes about Utopia and have a discussion with myself. Sigh.

I head over to the classroom and place the big of candy in a prominent position on the table by the door. At least it’s good candy. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Skittles. Designer brand name candy, no off-brand substitutes.

The students start filtering in and I am worried that they are mistaking me for a transfer student. I try to pump up my inner authority figure but to no avail. When a critical mass of students has assembled, I launch into my monologue.

“Hello, everyone. My name is Dorothy Watson, and I am one of the librarians on staff here. Ms. Birch has fallen ill due to food poisoning and will not be making it in today. She has asked me to distribute this quiz and lead a discussion on the section of Utopia you read last night.”

There are no audible groans. The students seem perfectly amenable to this change in programming.

I glance over the class roster. Ah, it’s an honors class of Paidiea. I wanted to be in Honors Paideia, but I wasn’t quite smart enough. Crap. These kids are possibly smarter than me. Damnit.

One perky girl near the front of the class raises her hand.

“Um, yes. You.”

I have no idea of who anybody is, so I just point in her general direction.

“Ms. Watson, would you like me to keep track of participation points on the class roster?”

Well, that’s a good idea.

“Yes, um, sorry—“

“My name is Brittany.”

Of course it is.

“Yes, Brittany. If you would be so kind after the quiz is completed.”

I distribute the quizzes and the students take them gladly, almost eagerly. They fill out their quizzes with supreme diligence and tenacity. All of the pop quizzes are completed and turned in within five minutes.

“Thank you, everyone, now let’s start our discussion Utopia—“

“Ms. Watson?”

Brittany makes sure to linger on the Ms., leaning on it just enough to remind everyone in the classroom that although I have a masters degree and could be a professor, I am only the substitute.

“Yes, Brittany?”

“Professor Birch usually reviews the answers of the quizzes before we move on to the discussion.”

This has turned into an academic pissing contest.

“While I respect that, Brittany, and I really do, Linda—excuse me, Professor Birch, is not here today. And I am. So I will be running class in the best way I see fit, and I see fit to start the discussion on the reading that was due today.”

Brittany scowls and cowers a bit, to nurse her severely bruised ego.

I decide to step it up a notch. I pick up Linda’s discussion notes and show them to the class.

“See these? These are the boring, dry discussion questions that Linda wants me to regurgitate to you.”

I rip them down the middle and let the pieces fall to the ground.

“What I want to do is facilitate a meaningful discussion of what you read last night and how it applies to your every day life. Paideia is all about honing your critical thinking and communication skills. After this class, you will be able to pick apart any piece of literature or artwork and sound knowledgeable. This is a class that empowers you to be able to from an opinion and back it up. Indulge me. Everyone clear your desks.”

They look up at my quizzically. I have chosen the route of bravado and there’s no turning back now.

“What about the book, what about Utopia, can we keep that on our desk?” Brittany asks emphatically. Her right eye twitches grotesquely.

“Absolutely not. Take the book off your desk as well. There’s no good in highlighting and making notes in the text if you need it in front of you to hold a conversation. The parts that actually had personal meaning to you are what you’ll remember. The only exception to the cleared desk rule is Brittany and your attendance roster—you may still mark down participation points if you’d like. Now, I will be perfectly honest with you all. I hated Utopia. I thought it was inaccessible and poorly written.”

A few gasps escape the lips of honor students.

“Now, what did you think? I mean, what did you really think of what you read for today?”

There is dead silence at first. Nobody knows what to say. They are used to answering Linda’s discussion questions like Pavlovian dogs. I have smashed their bell and they no longer know to salivate.

A boy in the back of the room tentatively raises his hand.

“Yes, you—what did you think?”

“I kind of hated it, too.”

“And why did you hate it—now, be specific.”

Slowly and surely, we start to deconstruct Thomas Moore. At times, it devolves into almost a roast of Comedy Central proportion. Everyone is laughing. These are the students that put a lot of pressure on themselves to succeed. Most likely, it’s a hold over from childhood when a parent or other authority figure made it very clear to them that they could NOT fail. And they’ve carried that mandate with them their entire academic life.

These are the kids that stay up late Friday night studying instead of getting a senior to buy them alcohol. They are future RAs, Phi Beta Kappa and quite possibly lawyers and doctors. But right now, they are kicking back, laughing and having a great time realizing that they can decide whether or not a piece of literature serves their needs.

I make sure that everyone grabs candy on the way out. I feel awesome. This may come back to bit me in the ass, but today I have actually made a difference in the way these students approach literature.

I feel a great sense of pride and purpose. Then I remember the CD I stole from Linda’s desk and run to my office to listen to it.

Linda Birch sits before me, nervously nursing her gin and tonic. I have decided to stick with red wine, ordering the same Cabernet from earlier in the evening. Our waitress is also the same woman who served Jamie and me at dinner. We share a look, I roll my eyes and she smiles.

Linda takes a deep breath.

“Dating is just so different from when I was your age,” she begins. “I feel that men were more direct with their intentions. Things were more black and white, more logical. You were either friends or you were more than friends. It’s all this in between, grey area modern nonsense that makes my head spin.”

“Do you find that this man you’re dating suffers from lack of clarity?”

“Um, no. He’s very clear—he’s an actor, which probably helps with communication skills,” I offer.

“My mother always said, ‘Never date an actor.’ She was married four times, though, so she probably wasn’t the best judge of character. Tell me, Dorothy, are all men pigs?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

I take it that Linda does not drink that much. She is halfway into her gin and tonic and is already starting to slur some words. I guess she could have started drinking before she wandered up to the bistro. I am slightly worried, as I don’t know how close she lives, but I figure that I can drive her home if need be. Hopefully it doesn’t come to that.

“I do, I do, I do think all men are pigs. Most men are pigs. And it doesn’t matter what country they’re from, they are still pigs. And we’re just the slops, the slops in their big pig trough bucket from which they choose what to eat and most of the time they are not even—not even discerning, you know, they’ll go with whatever slops are available, you know? Except sometimes—sometimes they just fucking wait, they wait for the newer slops, the newer, younger better slops you know, slops they haven’t eaten yet. It’s all bullSHIT.”

And with that, she proceeds to chug the rest of her gin and tonic. She is bordering on belligerent and I need to find a way to redirect her attention, ASAP.

“I agree, Linda, men can be really frustrating. You know, Jamie, he didn’t even tell me he had a kid. I found that out by accident when I surprised him this weekend.” Shit, why am I telling her this?!

This has piqued her interest. She stops trying to flag down the waitress for another cocktail and her eyebrows unfurl like descending venetian blinds.

“That is-that is—that is frustrating he didn’t tell you, yes it is, but it is beautiful that he has a child. A single actor dad? I—you are—hang on to him, Dorothy, he sounds like one of that non-piggish men—or is it un-piggish?”

“I think either usage is acceptable in this situation, Linda.” I smile and give her hand a quick squeeze.

Her eyes are starting to droop. I guess sleepy is better that angry.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like me to drive you home?”

“My car is still at the—at the library.”

“I can drive you home, Linda, really, it’s no problem.”

“But then how would I get to work in the morning?”

Ugh. Good point.

“I can pick you up on my way in tomorrow. No trouble at all.” It’s way better than the alternative, which is admitting my apartment is less than two blocks away and end up with my boss crashing in my unkempt home office/guest room.

“I would appreciate that, Dorothy. It appears as if I’ve had too much to drink.” She starts to hiccup.

She leaves a fifty on our table, which is much more than our tab, but I decide to let it go. Walking seems to take great concentration on her part and it occurs to me that she might vomit in my car. Ultimately, it’s a risk I guess I’m willing to take.

She falls into the passenger seat, her legs sprawling underneath her body at such and angle that she rearranges herself in order to let the door close. She starts snoring moments later, and I have to gently poke her and ask her where she lives. Thankfully it’s not far from campus and within minutes, I am depositing her in her driveway.

It takes her a few minutes to get the door unlocked, but as soon as she starts to turn lights on inside, I back out quickly and make my escape.

I get into my apartment and extract my cell phone from my purse. Voicemail from Jamie.

“Hey, Dorothy. I just wanted to say that I had a great night. We—Pete and I—were hoping that maybe you could come up and visit us Friday night and maybe have another sleepover. If you’d like to see the show again, I could get you one of my comps. But you don’t have to see it again—you could just come up after. Anyway, this message is going on too long! Let me know what you think. Bye.”

Too adorable! I immediately call him back.

“Hey, Dorothy,” his voice is a slightly husky and I swoon a little bit on the inside.

“Hey, yourself.” I draw out syllables like honey and am grinning from ear to ear. “I just got your message and Friday sounds great. I would love to see the show again.”

“Aw, you’re a trooper. Awesome, I’ll leave ticket under your name in will-call.”

“Sorry I didn’t call back sooner—as soon as you dropped me off, my boss accosted me and I ended up having another glass of wine at La Rana.”

“The Cabernet?”

“Absolutely. Then she got really tipsy and I had to drive her back home.”

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the night.”

“Yup, I guess so.”

“Listen, I don’t want to keep you up too late—I know you work early tomorrow. So, I’ll say goodnight and I’ll see you Friday. You can just wait outside of the theatre, if you don’t mind.”

“Until Friday, Mr.Cratchitt.”

“Until Friday, Dorothy,” he says in a Cockney accent.

I don’t want to hang up the phone, but by now it’s almost ten. I change into my pjs, after deciding that I can wait until tomorrow night to finally do laundry.

Feeling slightly sentimental, I reach for my collection of Rumi and flip to a random poem. The words send me off into my dreams with images of deserts and the love that’s on its way:

I woke up with unexpected buoyancy. I had a secret romance to uncover and an actual romance of my own that was blossoming. I am not Marian the librarian. I’m a kick-ass combination of Nancy Pearl, Melissa Etheridge, Oprah, and a little bit of pin-up girl on the side. I am on fire. I am unstoppable. I am completely out of clean underwear.

I scrounge around my underwear drawer with the ferocity and sense of purpose of a drug-sniffing dog. Nothing. Damnit. I forgot to do laundry.

I always wait until the last minute to do laundry. My laundry habits are dictated solely by underwear. Everything else I can make stretch out and last until the next load. Except underwear. I vaguely remember thinking on Saturday morning, “Wow, I should really do underwear,” but I must have thought that I had at least one more pair. Damnit.

These are the reasons I need to find a clean pair of underwear before I go to work:

1.) I need clean underwear to feel like an authoritative sleuth. I’m sure that Nancy Drew or Miss Marple never went commando.

2.) I’m pretty sure it’s part of the faculty dress code/code of contact. Wearing (clean) underwear. If it’s not, then it definitely should be.

3.) If I need to climb a step stool to get a book on a high shelf, that would be bad news bears.

4.) It is technically my third date with Jamie. The third date is earliest date (in my estimation) that sex is likely/possible. I do not have the the bravado to pull off an authentic reaction if Jamie gets down there and I have no panties. It would be decidedly out of character with my personality thus far and I don’t want to risk having to explain my laundry habits either.

I look at the clock. I need to get to work in 45 minutes. That’s barely enough time to drive to Walmart, be indecisive about third date underwear, grab a Starbucks Frappucino-y drink in lieu of real coffee and get to work in time to run to the bathroom and slip on the new underwear.

I throw on a tan dress and light green cardigan and hit the road.

The Walmart is surprisingly busy for 7:30 in the morning. I run over to the underwear section. All thongs and boy shorts are immediately disqualified. Same goes for granny panties. Something that says “Yes, I’m a librarian, but I like also like to have hot, passionate sex on occasion.” Damnit, this is hard!

Bewildered grandmothers and teenage Walmart workers regard me with confusion. “Who is this woman and why is she staring at the underwear section so intently?”

I settle on a three-pack of bikini underwear trimmed with lace. My options are black, beige or leopard print. I have the car ride to campus to make my decision.

I park my car abruptly in the library lot and hoof it to the bathrooms next to the main entrance. I lock the stall door behind me and open the package.

Black, beige or leopard-print?

Black, beige or leopard-print?

Black, beige or LEOPARD-PRINT?!?!

I finally decide on leopard-print. You only live once, right?

I trot over to my office and catch up on work emails until it’s time for Anders’ appointment. I wonder if he’ll be accompanied by Professor Rosholt. I am packing up my things when Linda appears at the door of my office.

“Dorothy, I’ve decided that I’ll supervise Professor Estad’s appointment to the Norwegian Artifacts room this morning. As the head of this library, it would only be right for me to meet Professor Rosholt and answer any questions she might have about our facility.”

I start to politely protest, but as I inhale and look into her eyes, I realize that she is immovable. She has already made her decision, and not even a fire in another part of the library would make her change her mind.

“Of couse, Linda, whatever you think is best.”

I watch her stride off with purpose, off to meet what I can only assume will be a bewildered pair of professors, Estad and Rosholt.

I immerse myself in my work for the day, and before I know it, it’s almost 5:00.

I compose myself and insert a breath mint into my mouth. I have an overwhelming desire to exude grace. I should not be this nervous. I am a graceful, beautiful, intelligent young woman who is about to go on a third date with an incredibly hot actor who happens to have an adorable son. No pressure here, none at all.

I hastily grab one last look at myself in the reflection of the glass encasing my office before I head out to my car.

I arrive at the parking lot, but I see no Jamie. It is empty except for cars. I approach my car, cautiously. There is a note stuck under the windshield, which reads:

I find parking near the bistro and enter tentatively. Jamie is sitting at a small table by near the front door. A small bouquet of roses sits on the table. I smile and sit down.

“Luckily, I deciphered your Spanish.”

He reaches across the table and gently takes my hand.

“I figured you would.”

Another disarming grin is shot in my general direction. I melt a little bit and am glad I opted for the leopard-print underwear.

He orders us a bottle of Cabernet. The wine is like crushed velvet, rich and full of texture. We dine, we laugh, we talk about everything from politics to which superheroes we liked as kids. This is too easy, though. I was instructed to bring my sense of adventure.

As we finish up our decadent cheesecake, Jamie leans in.

“Feeling adventurous?” he asks.

“Whenever I’m with you, I do.”

We both grin. He pays for our dinner, grabs my hand and pulls me up and out the door, into the brisk night.

“We’ll take my car, if that’s alright.” He opens the passenger side seat chivalrously.

I get in his car and wonder where on earth he’s taking me. But I’m very excited.

We drive out of Decorah and the stars are our guides. The car follows the bends in the road and lights in houses illuminate domestic Midwestern scenes.

I eventually recognize where we’re going. The waterfall right outside of town. We arrive, and Jamie parks the car.

“Do you know this spot?”

“Yep, I would come here when I went to Luther. It’s beautiful in the summer. Isn’t the park closed now, though? It’s after dusk.”

“I said you needed to bring your sense of adventure.” He hands me a flashlight and we carefully start to go up the trail leading to the waterfall.

I am quite possibly the clumsiest human being on the planet. And boots I’m wearing are definitely high on fashion but not on functionality. I stumble a few times, and Jamie takes my hand, guiding me up the gravel path.

We finally get to the point of the trail closest to the waterfall. It’s too dark to see the waterfall, but I hear the gentle gushing of perpetually cascading water. Jamie takes out two small candles in votive holders and places them on either side of the wooden railing. He lights one and then the other, leaning in close enough that I can smell whispers of Irish Spring soap through his sweater.

He looks intensely into my eyes.

“Dorothy, could I kiss you?”

I blink my eyes in rapid morse code signaling “Yes,” and it also comes out as a sigh between my poised and impatient lips.

He leans down and his lips brush mine. Slowly, tentatively at first and then the kiss blossoms into warmth and trust and longing. We are all lips and (tasteful) tongues and the moment is perfect. I am reminded of the moment in Gatsby when he waits for the exact right perfect moment to kiss her, as if he were striking a tuning fork.

Our first kiss goes on forever but is also over far too soon. Jamie brings me in, enveloping me in his embrace, and I gingerly place my head on his chest. We watch the flames of the small candles jump and try incessantly to reach toward the waterfall. We stand there in warmth in stillness for several minutes. Finally, gently, Jamie untangles his arms and kisses me once more, this time on my forehead.

“I’d like to stay longer, Dorothy, but I better get back to Lanesboro and relieve the babysitter.”

I look up into his sparkling green eyes and say I completely understand, even though I wish I could do everything to make him stay.

“I hope you’re okay with me wanting to take things kind of slow. I feel that this is something pretty special and I don’t want to screw it up by rushing into it.”

(AKA no leopard print panties needed this evening.)

I smile politely and plant a kiss on his cheek.

We walk/stumble back to the car and he drops me back off at the restaurant. He gives me one last quick kiss before I get out.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

I grin, blow him a kiss and wave.

I start to get my keys out of my purse and look up to see none other than Linda Birch.

“Come on, buddy, let’s let her have her coffee before jumping on her.”

“It’s Sunday, do we get to go have chocolate chip pancakes?!?!”

“Of, course, Pete.”

“Does Dorothy get to come have chocolate chip pancakes with us?!?!”

“If she wants to, buddy.”

Peter looks at me oh so hopefully.

I grin.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

***

I am still in my clothes from the day before, but that doesn’t bother me. Jamie bundles Peter up in his jacket and throws on a black peacoat. Peter holds on tightly to both of our hands as we walk out the door.

Every third step we swing him up off the ground.

“One, two, three, SWIIING! One, two, three, SWIIIING!” Pete cries out merrily as we head to the diner.

We are seated at a big green booth in the corner. Peter tries to sit on my lap, but settles instead for sitting next to me.

The waitress is young, blonde and has a strong Minnesotan accent.

“Well, how are ya folks dooin’ this mornin’?”

“Great thanks–”

Jamie starts speaking but is interrupted by Peter.

“Orange juice and chocolate chip pancakes, please!”

“Oh, sure, you betcha,” says blondie.

“Same for me but with coffee,” says Jamie.

“Yup, pancakes and coffee sounds good,” I add.

She takes our menus and scurries off to the kitchen to put in our order. I don’t know if I’m being paranoid, but it looks like she’s talking to the other waitress about our table.

“That’s Danielle. She’s been flirting with me forever. It’s probably quite the coup that I’m bringing a woman into the diner.”

“Daddy, what’s flirting?”

Jamie is caught off guard.

“Um, well, buddy, flirting is when two people, um, I mean, well, when one person–”

I jump in as reinforcement.

“Peter, flirting is when one person wants to be more than just friends with another person and tries to let them know without saying it out loud.”

Peter looks confused, but nods.

“I see,” he says sagely. He is too proud to let on that he’s not really following. The this heartbreaker of an apple won’t fall far from the handsome daddy tree, I suspect.

The pancakes are delicious. The Midwest is really the only place that knows how to do breakfast right. No substitutes. Real eggs, butter, cream. Anyone who is vegan or gluten-free is totally out of luck at this diner. We gorge ourselves until our bellies are full and our lips are smeared with chocolate.

Jamie grabs the check before I have time to reach for it.

“I owe you.” He winks.

“Well, this has been fun, but I’m sure you two boys have your matinee and I wouldn’t want to make you late for that.”

“She’s right, Dad. We wouldn’t want to be late for call. The one time we did that the stage manager got really angry. I mean, really mad. I thought she was going to explode!”

We get up out of the booth and Peter runs over and jumps into my arms.

“Your bedtime story is way better than any of Dads. Promise you’ll come back?” His voice warmly whispers into my ear.

“Of couse, buddy.” I whisper back.

Jamie comes over like he’s going to give me a hug as well, but instead stops himself and merely says, “I’ll call you.”

“Sure thing. I look forward to it.”

We go our separate ways, and I can feel the Danielle, the waitress, shooting daggers into the back of my skull. I grin and go out into the cold to find my car.

***

This has been almost too much for one weekend. When you’re in college, you think of adventure in terms of bungee jumping, rock climbing, international travel. After you graduate, it’s true that you may, in fact, do many of those exciting, adventurous things.

But the real adventure lies within places you have never been. And for me, many of those places involve trust, love, and being emotionally vulnerable.

Agreeing to stay for hot chocolate and making up a bedtime story was akin to bungee jumping for me. I thought that maybe I was taking step backwards, returning to Decorah and the school that I had just left a few years before. But life as a college student is a suspension of reality. Coming back as an adult has turned out to be the best challenge I could have given myself.

Driving back on Highway 52, my mind traveled in gentle curves like the road. I felt content, in the way you only do when you are in exactly the right place at the right time.

When I got to my apartment, I booted up my laptop and checked my email.

There were several messages from Linda. Most of them asked where Anders was, as she knew that he hadn’t yet returned from Minneapolis and, as the head of the library (and nothing at all to do with her being his possible lover/academic Mrs. Robinson), she was of course, concerned for his well-being.

I didn’t want her to have my home number or my cell phone (although both were available to her at the library in the staff files.) Instead, I checked to see if she was on Skype, which we sometimes used for conference calls with other libraries. Linda.Birch.Decorah was indeed online. Not wanting to call her, I hoped giving her the information about Anders via chat would be acceptable.

Dorothy.Watson.85: Professor Elstad decided to stay in Minneapolis with a colleague this weekend. Sorry I didn’t have my laptop with me or I would have answered sooner.

Linda.Birch.Decorah: Which colleague?

Jealous much, Linda?

Dorothy.Watson.85: Professor Rosholt.

Linda.Birch.Decorah: Is that a man or a woman?

Ok, now she’s not even trying to pretend.

Dorothy.Watson.85: An older woman. He said that she was going to drive them both back tomorrow morning and she was going to join him for his Monday morning appointment in the Norwegian Artifact room.

Linda.Birch.Decorah: Thank you, Dorothy. See you tomorrow.

With that, she signed off abruptly.

Honestly, I started to feel bad for her. I would have felt awful if someone I was seeing changed plans suddenly and didn’t keep me in the loop. It made me wonder if there was some Norwegian dating etiquette (or lack thereof) that made this behavior acceptable or even encouraged.

Unless…

Unless Anders didn’t know he was in a relationship.

What if Linda asked him out to dinner a couple of times and Anders was too polite to refuse? What if it’s all in her head? But she’s too smart for that, surely? Then again, I’ve done similar things myself, manufactured a relationship when there wasn’t really one.

I would have to observe them more closely.

It didn’t really effect me either way, whether they were having a relationship or not. But there was a morbid sense of curiosity that made me persevere.

My phone lit up. It’s from Jamie:

“Thank you so much for last night/this morning. Pete can’t wait for you to visit again, and neither can I.”

My fingers fly across my phone as I type:

“Me, too. Both of you boys are pretty darn cute. :-)”

Jamie replies:

“Tomorrow is one of my days off. I found a sitter for Pete. Can I come down and pick you up after work for a surprise date?”

I laugh.

“After last night, I think it would be hard to surprise me. But, yes, I’d love to, and I’ll be waiting. Good night, Jamie.”

“Good night, Dorothy. Sweet dreams.”

This weekend has made me blissfully happy. I sink into my sheets with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for what has already happened and a unique anticipation and excitement for what’s to come.